HAMPTON COURT PALACE, MIDDLESEX-ENTRANCE GATEWAY TO THE FIRST COURT
OLD ENGLISH MANSIONS. BY ALFRED YOCKNEY.
WHY do distant objects please? It is a question which has exercised many minds. William Hazlitt once had the inspiration to write an essay on the subject, saying, among other things, that the reason for our pleasure is that we clothe distant objects with the indistinct and airy colours of fancy. There is truth in this argument when applied to landscape, and still more so in regard to history and antiquities. We look on the distant past as we do on a beautiful sunset, conscious only of warm, glowing reflections. Forgetfulness and ignorance play a great part in our estimate of bygone days and things. The invasion of Britain by Julius Cassar and the later Romans has been the joy of the archaeologist—descendants of those who suffered at the time; and if we wander through Hastings Castle it is the personality of William the Conqueror which inspires us rather than remembrance of the troubles endured by the vanquished. We believe that tribulation, especially that of other people in a previous generation, had compensations.
In the same way we take pleasure in imagining pictures of the peaceful past, rich in colour and pleasant in tone. Those days in which our fore-fathers used y instead of i and almost invariably ended their words with an e, seem so picturesque and delightful. How many paintings have been shown at the Royal Academy under the title of “Merrie England” or its equivalent? Only Mr. Algernon Graves knows. The poets have been not less backward than the artists in proclaiming the romance of life in those distant days, and novelists have led us astray with equal regularity. For, almost certainly, we have been led astray. It is inconceivable that the days and nights in the olden times were filled with masques and continual merriment. Joviality there was, of course, and an absence of those assets of civilization which sometimes trouble us now: but life was a very serious thing, and even when there was no war at home or abroad, there were political and social movements which at times must have made the lives of the people intolerable. So history teaches us.
To destroy illusions, however, is not the way to earn popularity, so few but pessimists and the most severe historians look back with a keen eye for defects in our national romances. Most of us may take a generous view of the lives of our remote ancestors. Let them be supposed to have had the advantage of us in their environment, occupations, pastimes, and sentiments. It is futile to institute comparisons, and those who made England are entitled to the benefit of the doubt. That they did possess certain privileges is beyond question, and as other blessings have been substituted for the benefit of later generations, we can afford to look back with a certain amount of envy on the time when traditions were being made and events followed one another with less disturbing frequency than they are doing in the twentieth century.
The days of our youth are regarded, not without reason, as the period of our greatest happiness. It is often a transparent fiction, but on the whole there is an element of truth in the idea. For one thing our lives are then before us, and even if we have no definite course to be followed steadily there is generally the beacon of hope to inspire our progress. In after years, especially if we have been successful, the obstacles seem to have been lower and fewer. We may imagine, therefore, that the relentless advance of time is regarded with equal anxiety by inanimate things. If the stones, bricks, and timbers of ancient secular edifices could speak they would wish us to believe, as human beings do, that their early days were the best. Perhaps they would be right in this supposition, for buildings when first erected serve the purpose for which they are required and generally satisfy those who own and live in them. No doubt perfection was not attained in regard to the full utilisation of the site, the accommodation provided, and so forth, in the past any more than in the present, but ancient buildings would receive a certain measure of praise on completion. So it would be natural that the structure itself, given the power to absorb impressions, would look back to its earliest and most useful existence with the same feeling of regret experienced by most people in maturity or old age. If it were an Elizabethan mansion, the principal facade would recall with pride the arrival on horseback or otherwise of those notable guests who, dim years ago, conferred splendour and everlasting honour on the establishment, each projecting bay meanwhile looking down with mingled wonder and disparagement on the apparently lifeless motor carriage now bringing visitors to its time-worn entrance. The interior of the ancient mansion would be inclined no less than the exterior to look upon modern beings as usurpers and unheroic characters, compared with those who once walked through the stately halls and corridors. It would be interesting indeed if we could interpret the feelings of these monuments of the past. Such a chronicle would be as full of pathos as any history of a noble race or family, once powerful and magnificent, now crest-fallen or defunct. For building materials are subject to stranger vicissitudes than those who cause them to be manipulated. Even if they have only decay to contend with it is a constant struggle against their eventual fate, but as often as not they have to face destruction sooner or later. Sometimes the stones which have been used in an historic building are forced to do service again and again until their record and significance are lost. Occasionally we have a clue to the past, as in the case of “Nonsuch,” the beautiful palace begun by Henry VIII, and once an attraction on the road to Epsom. It is supposed that when this building was pulled down, to the perpetual disgrace of the first Duchess of Cleveland, some of the materials were used in the construction of “Durdans,” the prototype of the existing Surrey residence of Lord Rosebery. The fate of the Holbein Gateway, which once adorned Whitehall, was to be dismembered by order of the hero of Culloden, the idea being that it should be re-erected in the Great Park at Windsor. This was never done, though Thomas Sandby drew up a scheme at the time; and with the exception of a few fragments, this most interesting relic of Tudor architecture only survives in illustrations and models. A better destiny was in store for a later structure which outlived the esteem of the authorities, namely Temple Bar. That this work by Sir Christopher Wren should have been removed from Fleet Street was essential, no doubt, through the press of traffic which had arisen; but it is astonishing that the stones should have been permitted to lie about in the Farringdon Road for some years until rescued and re-erected at Theobald’s Park by Sir Henry Meux. The City Corporation struck a medal to commemorate the demolition in 1878, but it may be hoped that some day another one may be issued simultaneously with the restoration to London of this unique relic. Such examples of vandalism could be multiplied indefinitely; and when buildings destroyed by other means, such as fire, are added to the list, it is a matter for congratulation that so many remains of architectural design and craftsmanship are available for study in something approaching their original state.
Two main features contribute to the chequered existence of historic buildings. The first is restoration, which includes alterations and additions, and the second is decay, the variety which renders a house uninhabitable as well as obsolete. In the former case the old work has often been utterly spoiled by drastic measures of reconstruction or by good-intentioned but fatal efforts to repair and beautify: in the latter case the building gradually goes to pieces until it becomes a ruin, splendid still perhaps in its suggestion of other days, but becoming year by year a monument needing continual attention if it is to survive. We are then immersed in the depths of antiquarian lore, and the problems of archaeology which arise are only equalled by the diversity of methods brought forward for keeping the object intact. Conservation is a science as well as an art, but even so it is difficult to obtain unanimity of opinion from experts when work is contemplated. The case of Stonehenge may be mentioned, although it is beyond our field. Century by century this imposing group of stones has suffered, and different generations of engineers as well as architects, individually or as societies, have made suggestions for its maintenance and partial reconstruction. Yet in spite of great care it is always in jeopardy, partly because it is private property. At the time of writing this relic of Druid architecture is for sale, and if it could be made the national monument it deserves to be, special measures could be taken for its preservation. Another instance of disagreement between those experienced in restoration occurred when Mr. F. Baines, acting for the Office of Works, proposed to strengthen the fourteenth-century hammer-beam roof of Westminster Hall with the aid of steel as well as oak (1914). This modern method of preservation was duly adopted, and it will be for the experts in the years to come to praise or blame the restorers and the craftsmen engaged in the work at the present time.
With the institution of new legislative machinery it may be hoped that there will be no more instances of misapplied enterprise in removing objects of historic interest from their original positions. The case of Tattershall Castle, since presented to the nation by Lord Curzon, is fresh in the memory of all. The iniquity of taking away the fine sculptured stone fireplaces, now happily restored to their positions, has been matched time after time by similar acts, and it was not without much evidence of artistic crime that the Government rightly took action. Too much sentiment has overflowed, perhaps, in certain cases of alleged vandalism. Owners, including public bodies, have been neglectful of their possessions, and only when someone else has speculated on the commercial value, have the objects been appreciated for their artistic interest. It seems strange, for example, that some treasures of craftsmanship and antiquity from Westminster Abbey, Winchester Cathedral, and other sacred places should have been available for erection elsewhere at the call of the highest bidder. Innumerable relics of domestic architecture and decoration have been taken from English homes for transportation. Anyone who wished to do so could make out a list of indignities which would cause almost as much chagrin as the record, published recently by the National Gallery Committee, of important pictures sold out of the United Kingdom in modern times. The sale of a Gainsborough might be bracketed with the exportation of the Elizabethan panelling from Rotherwas, Herefordshire. In all such cases, however, the word desecration must not be used, for it often happens that without the intervention of those who understand the importance of these things, the decorative details of many houses would have ceased to exist or would have been obscured. A generation which could paint or whitewash the fine panelling it had inherited deserves and receives nothing but censure. Such acts of depreciation were once common, however, and it required a new order of intelligence to cause the removal of blemishes which did great injustice to the original work and really deprived the owners of desirable surroundings. In private houses this unappreciative attitude towards the past was evidence of personal taste gone wrong and might be attributed to narrow influences. But that the germ of destruction should appear in the most hallowed places is more remarkable. Occasionally there is compensation for such curious actions, as in the case of Hampton Court. About a year ago, during the redecoration of a suite of apartments, some fine oak panelling was discovered behind the battening and papered canvas, together with two stone fireplaces and other features which had been hidden for many years. These had been Wolsey’s private rooms, and their restoration to their original state provided a remarkable contribution to our imaginative picture of the great Cardinal.
A visit to the Victoria and Albert Museum will reveal evidence of the modern regard for details once completing and adorning buildings which have been demolished or have seen better days. The front of Sir Paul Pindar’s house, transferred from Bishopsgate to the Museum, is of epic grandeur; while the inlaid oak panelling from Sizergh Castle, Westmoreland, with the bedstead to match, reminds us in an exceptional way of sixteenth-century accomplishments. It is fortunate that many fine examples of exterior and interior workmanship have escaped the perils to which they have been exposed since the days of their pristine elegance, and are now preserved in comparative safety. Though there is little reason to doubt that some really desirable objects have always commanded a certain degree of respect, sufficient care has not been exercised in many notable cases. The history of the housebreakers’ trade is full of artistic tragedies, and the awakening of public interest might have come sooner for the benefit of the national reputation. Exactly when the movement began for the full appreciation of such works of art and industry cannot be stated. The influence of the Society of Antiquaries, dating from the eighteenth century, has been considerable, and other bodies have worked quietly also for the purpose of recording the existence of objects worthy of attention. With such efforts of tabulation and description the good work generally ceased, and the worship of the things themselves being confined to a limited circle the warmth of appreciation was seldom of sufficient power to ripen the fruit of the tree of knowledge. It was the plucking of the fruit which was responsible for a better appreciation of its quality. When astute business men perceived that there was money in the more or less abandoned relics of the past, and proceeded to find new owners for them, the British public discovered that the derelict objects were rare and beautiful. The work was not always artistic in the accepted sense, but it possessed character, individuality, and charm. It was not machine-made or finished with the precision of a later taste in handiwork, but it was good and English to the core. Museum directors, connoisseurs, architects, and craftsmen like William Morris, had their share in the enlightenment of the people to the real significance of the work of men’s hands, but the mainspring of the movement for preservation was the competition of professional antiquity hunters. Once the best attributes of old house fittings had been pointed out by various means, but chiefly in the language of value sterling, the future of relics existing in situ seemed brighter. Eyes were turned jealously to the equipments in old houses, and a new race of students arose to safeguard national and more or less private treasures. All this has happened in the last half of the nineteenth century. There remains much to be done, however, before the real lessons of the past are impressed upon the public.